


(Please Come) Home

by ThreeKnivesInAWineGlass



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:52:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeKnivesInAWineGlass/pseuds/ThreeKnivesInAWineGlass
Summary: A month is a long time to wait for someone who might not come back.





	(Please Come) Home

**Author's Note:**

> Presently a one shot but likely to be developed further at some point.
> 
> Author’s disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters I write about are based off of real people but are by no means intended to represent real people; the personalities I write are inferred from public personas and should not be taken as accurate portrayals of their real world counterparts.
> 
> I’ve been around enough to see people confusing fiction with reality, so before you read my story, I implore you to recognize these as characters, not celebrities. Please don’t project what you read in stories onto real people. Please respect real people.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy my fic.

A cold room covered with plastic sheeting. It’s somehow familiar to Seokmin, as if he’s been here before. And maybe he has, but it was a long, long time ago.

Some of the windows, despite not being covered, are impossible voids that Seokmin can’t see anything out of. It’s strange, a little unsettling, though the feeling is offset by the way the rest of the windows almost seem to glow, the sky outside illuminated by what must be hundreds of brilliant stars. It looks like tropical waters, a bright yet serene color. It looks like dawn.

Seokmin aches to turn on the lights, to rip the plastic sheeting away from the furniture and let whatever left the house come back. He knows something left. He’s not sure how he knows, but he does, and it makes him feel anxious, like whatever’s missing is important.

He remembers what it was like before the lights were turned off and the sheeting was laid over everything. The memory is both vivid and unreal, but compelling, all the same. It spurs Seokmin to act, trailing his hand against the walls as he looks for the lightswitch. His fingers find it quickly, and Seokmin wants to laugh because of course it was here. He feels silly for not remembering.

The overhead light flickers when he flips the switch, only a dull glow being cast over the room and Seokmin. The lamps scattered around the room stay resolutely dark.

Something in Seokmin screams, and it’s a horrible, ugly emotion that he struggles to name. Is it fear? No, that doesn’t feel right. Although, he can’t deny that something isn’t right here. He can’t shake the feeling that he should leave, but he can’t. Even more than that, he doesn’t want to. He wants to be here. He wants to wait.

Why he wants to stay is a question that Seokmin only thinks to ask himself now, as he really takes in how big the room is and how small he is within it, surrounded by countless old memories in the form of photographs and books. The answer comes quickly. Seokmin’s drawn to the tables piled with leather-bound journals. To the delicate frames sat precariously atop the little towers. To the uncertainty and promise of what might be behind the glass or written on the first page, if only he could gather the courage to look.

It doesn’t matter if the frames and covers seem to speak to him though. This isn’t his house, and those aren’t his memories to recall. None of this is his, even if he thinks it once might have been. It’s that thought, and that thought alone, that keeps him from peeling the plastic away, from turning on every lamp one by one, from sitting on the sofa with a warm mug between his hands as he stares at the door and waits for - for what?

A gust of cold air storms through one of the open windows, rustling the curtains and distracting Seokmin from his train of thought with a shiver down his spine. Bunching the ends of his sleeves up over his fingers, he walks to the window and tries to close it, but the weather must have frozen it stiff since it refuses to budge no matter how hard Seokmin pulls.

He can see his breath when he exhales, and it fogs the portion of the window in front of him. Then, through the clouded glass, for just a second, he thinks he sees something outside the house. It looks like a person.

There’s a startling crack ringing in Seokmin’s ears as he blinks and stumbles backwards. It takes him a moment to realize that the window finally gave and is now closed, and that must have been what made the noise. But what was outside - who was outside?

Seokmin’s heart stutters and he doesn’t know why. His mind conjures an image of fingers tangled in fine hair. They’re his fingers, he thinks, but whose hair? Lightly rubbing his fingertips together, it’s almost like he can feel the strands still between them, the phantom sensation of something soft. A ghost of something that he believed was special a long, long time ago.

Or maybe he still thinks it is special….

There’s another ache in Seokmin’s chest. It’s different from the others. It leaves his hands feeling cold and his limbs too tired to keep him standing. He lets himself sink to the floor and curl up against the side of the sofa. The fall is easy as he’s weighed down by the sense that he’s lost something, been separated from a gentle warmth, and just hasn’t known.

Suddenly, Seokmin would swear he can feel traces of it in his veins. The hair between his fingers is hiding a pair of eyes behind it, and something laces together with his free hand. Different fingers that belong to those eyes. Strange, the fingers look so much like his own. It makes it hard for him to tell where his hand ends and the other begins, but he likes it.

The air shifts and Seokmin can smell lavender. It’s peaceful, haunting, and makes Seokmin drop his head back against the side of the couch, his eyes slipping shut.

Now he can hear the ocean, and that’s when things start clicking into place. This  _ is _ Seokmin’s house. Or, well, kind of. It used to be. It also used be someone else’s house too.

The memories in those books and pictures are his, and he shared them with someone special. Seeing them like this, coated in a thick layer of dust, Seokmin wonders what happened. Didn’t he promise to be there when Seokmin woke up?

Then again, when Seokmin did wake up, things weren’t as simple as they should have been. He lost a lot of time. That’s what they told him, the doctors and nurses, so Seokmin figures it makes sense that he couldn’t wait. A month is a long time to wait for someone who might not come back.

Seokmin’s just glad that he left their memories behind. If he hadn’t, Seokmin isn’t sure he would have been able to recover all the nights they spent together, to remember how his hair felt between the pads of Seokmin’s fingers, how he smelled like lavender, or how he would drag Seokmin to the beach to watch the sun rise.

It hurts, but Seokmin would rather be alone and have those memories than forget the one person who felt like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert: when I come back and finish this fic, DK's lost love is gonna be The8. SEOKHAO RISE!
> 
> Art is only complete once it has been witnessed. Want to help finish a story? Leave a comment. If you have a thought after reading a fic, tell the author about it. Comments motivate, inspire, and please us immensely - like a cat getting pats. So spread a little goodness, support your fandom authors and leave a comment to let them know you see their work.


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